


Torn Out Of Time

by ClementineStarling



Series: This Path That We Walk Upon [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thorin Lives, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-05
Updated: 2015-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-16 12:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3487589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>The battle is won but the dead still have to be buried. </p><p>Thranduil attends the funeral of Thorin's sister-sons and - swayed by his suffering - eventually reconciles with the dwarf.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Torn Out Of Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaqueline_nutweasel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaqueline_nutweasel/gifts).



> For Jaq, who held my hand through this and filled my glass with wine and my mind with head canons and whose intellect is brilliant as starlight and whose beauty shines even brighter. :*
> 
> __
> 
> Warnings: Implications of consent where none was given - regarding references to the first two parts of the series.  
> Apart from all the grief and sorrow and the funeral, this is as much of a fluffy fix-it AU as I, proud member of the International Doom & Gloom Club, could possibly come up with.

When Aulë created the dwarves, he had a world in mind that was shaken and stirred by Morgoth’s passions and he made them hard and unyielding, so they would endure hardship and suffering with relative ease. It seemed a kindness then. But what is too hard must inevitably break when put under pressure. Strange that a smith of all people would have made that mistake, Thranduil muses.

Tall the Elvenking stands amidst the Khazâd and limber like a willow that yields to the storm, thus never falls, unchanged and unchanging as are all firstborn of Ilúvatar. Compared to the Gonnhirrim he is what a diamond is to coals, eternal and pure, and still he finds himself wondering, even marvelling at their strangeness. They who with time grow brittle as the stone they were fashioned from while he stays the same for ever and ever, while for him aging is but a delusion of the world fleeting around him. He knows the passage of the seasons, knows how incessantly the minutes trickle through an hour glass, knows that is natural for a living thing to eventually wither and die, and yet death remains a riddle unsolved. The cycle of life must bear more meaning to those, who are subject to it, he thinks. They are defined by it from the moment they are born till the day they die. And die they will. _Today, tomorrow, one year hence, a hundred years from now. What does it matter? They are mortal._

What does it matter indeed? Has he not known better than to concern himself with those fated to perish? Has he not ages ago forsaken their company to escape the heartache of their loss? Has it not been wise to waive their friendship and thus remain unaffected by their perils?

He must be mad to forgo his own rules, yet here he is, standing in the grand halls of Erebor, side by side with those lucky enough to survive the great battle, sharing their grief. To his right Bard, Lord of Dale, who – as a Man – is even more ephemeral than the Masters of Stone, a falling star, who will be dead long before his light has even begun to fade. A good and righteous man, and for sure a better king than any of his subjects could have hoped for. A friend perhaps, if Thranduil were inclined to make any among the mortal people.

Beside Bard are his children, who weep openly for the dead, inconsolably, hot, wet tears of anguish, and Thranduil cannot glance at them without feeling their pain, so he is careful not to, careful to guard his heart lest it be overwhelmed by sorrow. It is around him like the air and the wind, the raw torment of loss is palpable – an open wound shared by so many, Thranduil feels it like a knife to the heart, regardless of all intentions.

 _Take it from me_ , Tauriel said, and he wished he could, but it lies not within his powers to work such magic. If at all, only time can heal a broken heart.

Time that is ever so sluggish, when it should hurry, and never lingers if one wished for it. Just like now, when Thranduil desires most fervently to get out of these walls, which seem to close in on him further with every passing moment, a claustrophobic sensation that grows even worse, when a hush begins to crawl from the crowd.

Silence falls upon the kingdom of Erebor, a deafening, sacred quiet settling like snow, feathery at first, then heavier, almost smothering. There is nothing to be heard, as if even their hearts stopped in honour of those who breathe no more. Soon the solemn stillness becomes intolerable, stretching on into every fibre of their being, and death is among them, the eternal, incomprehensible void. Thranduil feels it reaching for him and the sensation is freezing his blood, it is like drowning, a terrible, awful weight pressing down on him.

Then footsteps like a war drum’s echo. Eight pairs of dwarven feet march down the aisle. Eight dwarves to escort the princes to their final resting place. And somehow the spell shatters. Thranduil hears Tauriel’s sharp intake of breath at the sight of the dead warriors as they are carried into the great hall on the shoulders their faithful friends. Her grief is brightest, closest, sharpest to his susceptible mind, perhaps for he knows her pain best, and it takes effort, so much more than he would have ever thought possible, not to reach out for her in a gesture of comfort, an act of kindness that does not beseem a great king.

Behind the dead, three more dwarves follow the cortege, one short and white-haired, one tall and bald and one - impossibly, improbably, inconceivably – unvanquished. Again a strangely familiar sense of irreality befalls the Elvenking, a sensation he has felt before, like a faint ripple in the fabric of Arda, a crease on a smooth surface, a wrinkle in the due course of events, sprung up in the crisis of battle…

__

Terror was ruling his heart as he climbed atop Ravenhill, indescribable, boundless fear for his son guiding his step – and yet, something made him pause, an odd sense of foreboding. And then he saw him, the dwarf, Thorin, on the frozen river, stumbling forwards as if drawn by an invisible string. And he knew, somehow he knew, and Wait! he thought, a warning that reverberated in his mind, chimed in his whole being. And beyond all possibility the dwarf stopped in his tracks. As if he could hear me, Thranduil wondered, and he listened closer to the fright trembling in his heart. He could not fully perceive what it was, for he had nowhere near the skills necessary, but it still felt horrid and he called out the first thing that came to mind: Step back! he exclaimed, silently, though with all the might of his spirit, and – again – it seemed to work. The dwarf staggered backwards a pace or two, and not a moment too soon, for from beneath the ice a blade was thrust, just where a heartbeat ago a clumsy dwarven foot had been planted, and out of the freezing water the monstrous shape of the Defiler emerged, as if spit one last time from the depths of the Timeless Void.

He felt the disbelief as his own, a stunning, paralysing bewilderment, but he also felt the blade of Gondolin in his fist, alert, keen steel forged a long time ago – for this purpose, this moment alone it seemed, and Thranduil pushed in his mind, a shove to break the stupor and the sword moved as if wielded by magic and the dwarf moved with it, with uncanny elegance for a son of Durin, swift and ready and intent. Another swing, another thrust and it was done.

There was one glorious moment of victory, a beam of sunshine flooding his heart, shared by this curious bond connecting them, before realisation struck and brought Thranduil back to his senses: last time he’d seen it, Orcrist had been in Legolas’ possession! And renewed trepidation stirred him from the spot and he made haste to find his son, leaving behind a slightly befuddled dwarf-king.  
__

Some of that confusion surrounding Thorin has never left, as if reason bends around him like light is refracted by gemstones, and Thranduil finds the effect to be dizzying and beguiling and utterly haunting. It makes it hard to look and hard to look away.

He is almost thankful for the sorrow that anchors him in reality, unrelenting and cruel like bands and chains of cold iron.

Tauriel’s breathing becomes laboured, as if a sob is swelling in her breast, when the pall bearers lower their burden and respectfully step backwards, heads lowered, and Thranduil can’t help feeling pride at her self-control for he knows very well the hurt of heartbreak. And he curses etiquette that forbids him to console her like the grey-haired dwarf among the company who puts an arm around one who appears to be the youngest of the lot and the only one unable to keep up a composed expression.

Cold as stone lie the brave princes, grim as rock stand their companions in their last watch. Thus is the price of victory.

Yet what is left is what matters, and who survives… Somehow they fade into the background as every gaze concentrates on Thorin. Even Thranduil feels the magnetic pull that is exuding from the dwarf as he strides towards the laid out corpses of his sister-sons, haloed by his victory and humbled by his loss. It is obvious how heavy their death – the death of all – weighs upon him, it slurs his step and strains his shoulders, but it is also obvious that he may be battered and bleeding and bruised, yet he is not broken.

A murmur travels through the ranks as Thorin drops to his knees before his dead nephews, and then the dwarves, the proud stubborn folk of Durin, follow his lead and kneel with their king in honour of the fallen.

It is an overpowering temptation to join them, but the dignity of a king does not allow bending his knee with the common people. There is only one exception. On an impulse Thranduil reaches for Bard’s elbow and steers the perplexed fellow down the aisle and up to Thorin’s side. As he kneels next to him, he can hear his soldiers following his example, and Bard too. United Dale and Mirkwood pay their last respect to the slain princes of Erebor, united they bow before their great sacrifice.

And Thorin looks at him out of slightly bleary eyes (that are still so impossibly blue like a winter morning) and then nods in an unexpected act of gratitude. There is nothing of the old enmity in his gaze, only heart wrenching sorrow, and something in Thranduil falls apart.

Out of shared grief another bond might come forth, a treaty that is not a mere truce, but a peace that is worthy of the name. There always lies hope in destruction, the foolish belief that a world rebuilt might be a better place.

The stone floor has grown excruciatingly hard beneath Thranduil’s knees before at last he arises. Bard gets up soon after, and with a reassuring glance at him, answered by a faint nod, the Man reaches into his coat to produce the treasure he has carried next to his heart ever since a little hobbit delivered it to them. “May it bring good fortune to your people”, he says simply, honestly, as he hands over the Arkenstone.

Thorin, in a gesture of unknown humility, receives it still kneeling and Thranduil understands at once the grandeur of this apology.  
“May the alliance between Men, Dwarves and Elves be as everlasting as this stone”, the Elf says in acceptance of the unspoken offer. Finally there shall be peace between their people, even more if the Valar will, friendship perhaps…

And then Thorin rises and Dain’s voice thunders through the vast halls in his declaration: “Behold, Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, rightful heir to the throne of Durin and King under the Mountain.”

__

They crown him directly thereafter, as if there was no more time to waste, as if they still dreaded their triumph to be but a dream, and when Thorin speaks in his booming, gravel-coarse voice, a voice befitting the ruler of dwarvendom, his words tell of sacrifice and of loyalty, of home and of love, not of treasures won or riches reclaimed. Their warrior king stands humbled, chastened before his people, and they love him all the more for it.

The celebration that follows is as much wake as it is coronation feast, half mourning, half mirth, roughly held together by wine and ale. Tales are told and songs are sung and the dead pass into legend. Thranduil knows that one day, they will speak of this moment like now they speak of the battles of old and the glory of their heroes, and he will still be young of body then and even more ancient of mind.

He looks at Tauriel, who seems to find solace among the late prince’s friends – looks upon her more fondly perhaps than is wise, but what is wisdom anyhow these days? It was his counsel that drove his son away, his arrogance that he mistook for prudence. And now Legolas’ dear friend is everything that remains of him, and Thranduil can’t help this feeling of inappropriate affection, every time his gaze falls upon her, as if he has indeed lost a son but in turn gained a daughter.

Which in itself might not be a bad thing. The great Elvenking loves his people, more than anyone may know, every single one of them, like a father would love his children, and yet he cannot be their ruler without leading them with firm hand and rightful judgement, and there still will come the day, when he has to punish his guard’s captain for her insubordination. It pains him more than he wants to admit.

He will not banish her, that would be too cruel; on closer inspection he cannot think of anything that could be severer than the strike she has already suffered. But a sentence passed by fate can not supersede a proper punishment. Such are the laws even a king has to obey.

Thoughtfully he weighs the goblet in his hand, observes the liquid swirl, red, oily, so similar to blood, and yet so different, and he sighs.

“The connotation will pass”, a husky voice says, and when he looks up he sees the dwarf-king’s eyes resting heavy on him, in a sad, dark gaze; and he remembers that – compared to their life-span – there is so much more loss in Thorin’s life, so much more blood and despair, and he nods faintly, gracefully, but with a sentiment of which he hopes to be recognised as sympathy.

Thorin has not spoken to him but for a few courtesies declaimed with the accomplished demeanour of someone trained in diplomacy, and it’s been like catching a glimpse through time at the prideful prince he once was. Now, the Thorin his gaze meets is no longer that dwarf but a leader who has lost whom he swore to protect, a ruler who knows the price of power, a king whose realm rests upon bones. He wears this burden like his mantle, with pride and humility.

Thorin speaks no more but returns to indulging in wine, and the entertainment of the high guests falls back to Balin and Dain, who, with varying success, give their best in achieving a innocuous conversation by exchanging meaningless pleasantries (or whatever the dwarves consider bandying civilities that is).

The hours pass, and just when Thranduil finally, calmed by the comfort of drink and song, considers to retire and try to find some sleep, Thorin addresses him again. “I dreamt of you”, he says, his voice not even slightly slurred by the wine, “on the eve of battle.”

So the hour of truth has come at last, Thranduil thinks and realises at the same time that it is this that made him linger so long, the hope they would talk about what has happened between them. “I know”, he replies simply. There is no use denying it.

Not even a trace of doubt shows itself in Thorin’s eyes, only a sort of calm understanding. “So it was a dream then?”, he asks nonetheless.

“It was”, Thranduil says and pauses for what feels like a very long time before he adds. “And it was not.”

Thorin nods. As if it takes no more to grasp what has transpired than his sparse words of admittance.

He raises his hand to beckon one of his guards towards him, and apparently the dwarf has only waited for this sign, because he brings with him a small wooden chest. He sets it down on the table in front of Thorin who – without opening it – slides it towards Thranduil. There is just one thing it can possibly contain: the lost Gems of Lasgalen.

“My apologies for withholding them from you. I see now that it was unjust”, Thorin says simply before he gets to his feet. With a bow he speaks his last words to the Elvenking. “I hope we are finally even, Thranduil, son of Oropher, may there be no more enmity between our people.” And so he takes his leave.

__

Thranduil’s dreams are fitful that night and in the many nights that come after, as if Ilmo takes revenge on him for abusing his realm to pursue his own, selfish ends. He dreams of dwarfish brawn and beard bristle and the passionate touch of a lover. And he also dreams of confined spaces, pitch-black and suffocating, and the sticky feel of blood on his hands.

When he wakes, he is gasping and terrified and aroused.

The panic subsides soon after, like the flutter of a bird that settles down once danger has passed, but the lust coils tight and stubborn in his belly and screams its demand of release into every corner of his mind and body, and for hours he is hard and throbbing until the itch finally abates and he can rise and go about the day’s business.

It is such a nuisance, he has even considered taking a lover among his own people – to quell this wretched urges. But not only does it seem wrong to command a subject, the thought of an elven body also holds not much of an appeal. It bears too much resemblance to what I have lost, he thinks even when he knows the lie for what it is. Nothing could compare to her and her beauty and what she meant to him. And nothing could compare to the dwarf he desires either. Not even another dwarf.

And the moon waxes and wanes over Mirkwood, again and again and a third time, and the winter comes along and passes, and then at last, when spring is already stirring, a messenger of Dale appears at the gates of the Woodland Realm, bringing word of Bard’s official accession to the throne. There will be festivities celebrating the reconstruction of the city, which Bard, modest as he is, has placed special emphasis on. As if him becoming King were a mere technicality. However, a delegation of the Wood-elves is requested for this glad event, with phrases that sound like copied from a textbook for such occasions. Thranduil himself reads the letter with the usual stony expression while the Man who delivered it looks pale and nervous, as if he feared punishment.

Ridiculous this apprehension of elven cruelty, Thranduil thinks while his eyes glide over the script which is – despite its obvious origin in a guidebook of diplomacy, and the utmost diligence applied to the writing – somewhat inelegant, bordering on the clumsy, as if the scribe has not had much practice yet. There are also some sharp, rough edges to the quill’s sweep. Perhaps the letters were simply unfamiliar… Perhaps it was a young dwarfish scholar who wrote it.

The suspicion is enough to produce the most vivid pictures in his mind, the image of a dim room, and in the sparse light cone of a candle a dwarf bent low over paper, scribbling hurriedly, while Bard strides around him in long, impatient paces, disgruntled by the formal requirements of stately business. “I could make such better use of my time”, he would say. “The repairs of the outer walls are still not finished, neither is the city hall, nor even my own house.”

And a low chuckle would answer him and a deep, amused voice: “All in good time, Bowman, all in good time.”

And Thranduil can positively see the dwarf-king sprawled in an armchair by the hearth, with so much more leisure than an official visit would call for, the large fingers curled around a cup of wine, the blue shirt open to reveal quite a good view of his muscular chest – it would only be natural for Thorin to take another lover, preferably one of high rank and bold spirit and handsome appearance. All of which are criteria the Lord of Dale easily fulfils.

The jealousy sparks in Thranduil’s heart with sinister instancy and again he reads the words central to the invitation…

_Even if we dare not hope for the great king Thranduil himself to grace us with his presence, we still trust he shall depute an embassy of his people to witness the coronation of Bard, first of his name, heir to Girion and henceforth king of Dale, as a sign of good-will and friendship between Elves and Men._

… and he knows he would attend this feast, even if the heavens fell and burnt.

__

The city of Dale has risen from the ashes in renewed greatness, proud and cheerful with its bright banners and blooming flowers. Its walls still bear the marks of fire and war, but they are filled with so much life and joy, it makes one forget the dreary past and overlook the traces of ruin. The population appears to match the blitheness of the city’s decorations. As they pass the main gate, the elven entourage is greeted with utter enthusiasm, as if the feast started early and everyone was drunk already.

Thranduil who is ever weary when it comes to the company of Men, finds himself pleasantly surprised by such friendly a reception, and when Bard hurries to welcome him, in a way that is in equal measure a little too informal and entirely heart-warming, he realises that – all expectations considering Thorin aside – he is perchance to enjoy this visit after all.

The Lord of Dale leads him into what will be his palace, a house larger than the others, yet not overly ostentatious. One can easily see that Bard has directed his attentions to more urgent matters than creating a home becoming of a king, but the festive decorations make up for any lack of splendour.

“You’ve put your share of the treasure to good use”, Thranduil says as they stand together on the loggia overlooking the gardens and the city beyond.

“Yes, Dale is nearly restored to its former state, or so those tell me who remember the olden days”, Bard agrees and says something Thranduil has not quite foreseen: “Even apart from the gold, I could not have done it without the dwarves. They helped out a lot with the construction. Thorin himself oversaw the rebuilding of the rampart. Not that I want to put it to the test, but this time I think not even a troll could make it collapse.”

Thranduil only nods, face calm, unmoved, but inside he is aflame, the mention of Thorin’s name seems enough to set him on fire, the desire a liquid blaze in his veins, eating at him with ever growing impatience. Now, after all these months, he can’t wait to lay eyes on the dwarf again, and the few remaining hours till the opening of the festivities seem to stretch like years.

When Thorin finally appears, he naturally does not come alone. His most loyal advisors accompany him – Balin, who serves as his right hand, Dwalin, commander of his army, the hobbit of course, and a female dwarf who looks like so much like Thorin, it can only be the Lady Dís, his sister. The semblance is so uncanny that Thranduil finds his gaze to linger unseemly long on her. She is beautiful, although grief and sorrow have taken their toll, softer in a way than her brother, yet harsher in other aspects. Where the reclaiming of Erebor seems to have taken the anger out of Thorin, where he appears relenting and humbled, the loss has honed her spite and sharpened her spirit into a weapon, keen and piercing in places, jagged and frayed in others. A thing of peril and perdition. Thranduil involuntarily shudders at the sight of a soul so utterly broken.

So this is his life now, he thinks, the burden of death is still heavy on his shoulders. But there are faithful followers, friends who help him carry it. A family after all. It is a consolatory thought; one that makes him almost stray from his set path. What would give him the right to disturb this hard-earned peace?

But then their gazes meet and he sees, beyond all mild manners and diplomatic demeanour, the same old burning, a passion not yet satisfied, a flame not yet extinguished. And it is Thranduil who averts his eyes.

The hour grows late. Wine has flown freely, generously. Many a guest is drunk beyond their wits, some even already snoring at the tables. Others still sing and dance, or at least attempt to. Only Thorin seems to have disappeared, yet his companions still linger, so he cannot be far, and Thranduil who is as keen a tracker as any elf of his realm sets out to hunt him down.

He finds him in the gardens beneath the cherry trees, sitting on one of the small stone walls that brace the terraces and divide the meadow into round grass-grown planes, circling down from the palace like large steps.

“Join me”, the dwarf says without even looking at him, but there is not a shred of doubt in his voice about whom he would face if he turned. He points his pipe to the spot next to him, and Thranduil sits without a thought for his state robe that is worth more than half the city.

The night is mild for Lothron, almost warm, breathing life and hope and the promise of forgiveness. Silently Thorin hands him his cup of wine and draws another puff of smoke into his lungs. They do not speak but watch the moon cast its light on the white flowers and the meadows sloping gently down towards the next level. So much has changed between them, they can now share a drink and sit side by side, wordless, but not out of enmity.

Together they listen to the dark, to the serenity that lies over Dale, only underlined by the faint sounds of song and merriment from the feast, but they both remember only too well the sacrifice this peace took, a sea of blood and tears, and also the years of suffering that came before, the age of exile, of poverty, of bitterness. And Thranduil understands like he has never allowed himself to understand.

“Smaug burnt this city to a cinder a hundred and seventy years ago, and yet, the cherry trees still bloom”, Thorin murmurs into the night. “As if history never happened, as if death never ruled within these walls.”

“Such is the nature of Yavanna’s dominion, nothing is more enduring than her plants and beasts. They care not about the perils of the speaking people, for they are neither blessed nor cursed with foresight or memory. And if they experience pain it never transcends the moment it happens.”

“An alluring notion. But what would we be without our hopes and regrets.”

“What indeed.”

Thorin draws another lungful of smoke down his lungs. A peculiar habit, and Thranduil cares not for its effects, but this weed’s sweet, spicy scent is almost soothing in his sensitive nose. He lets himself be embraced by its mist of oblivion, while Thorin is still reminiscent of the past…

“I’ve been introduced to love among these trees. To its sweetness and perhaps also to its cruelties. It was not long after that I first laid eyes on you, and at once I understood that I wanted you more than anyone, more than anything. More than any stone or metal, more than glory or power. You who were, in my young mind, as ancient as time and as beautiful as starlight, and as unreachable too, and yet I longed for you with all the foolishness of youth, as one yearns for air and food and drink. And that day you turned your back on my people—“

It’s been so long and the hurt still runs deep like veins of mithril, Thranduil can hear it in the roughness of Thorin’s voice and he fears what might be woken, should he dig any deeper. But the moment passes quickly and the dwarf appears to have regained his composure when he continues: “Over the years the longing twisted itself in a new kind of need, a sick affliction with thoughts of vengeance that bloomed and blossomed into things of nightmare. And when you imprisoned me, when you beat me, some part of me was convinced that this was the only touch of yours I deserved. But then you laid hand on me in an entirely different manner, my desire for you was rekindled and stirred into a blaze even more consumptive than before.”  
He still does not look at him, as if this confession can only be made to the unseen.

“Against all odds my company and I were favoured by fortune: we escaped your cells, we reached the Mountain, we survived the firedrake’s wrath. I could have called myself lucky if not the gold-lust had overtaken me and every hunger, every craving had been multiplied a thousand fold, and my insides burnt with desire for you. And again, just when I thought I could not take it anymore, you showed up at my door, an apparition, a ghost, a dream. I did not know what you were, and I don’t know it now. But I suppose it matters not. You were the water when my thirst was worst, and you quenched it – at least for a little while. My question is another.”

He has no strength for anything but honesty, it seems: “Why did you do it, why did you come?”

“Selfishness”, Thranduil answers, reluctant to explain the ancient magic he wrought or any of his motivation that goes beyond this single, most honest word.

But Thorin does not seem to expect more, and answers with a rough laugh. “So we are not that different after all.”

“No we are not”, Thranduil says and he wants to reach out to touch the dwarf’s hand, lean over to kiss him, gently on the forehead or hotly on the mouth, he is not sure, but he dares not do either. Too much has transpired for such innocent gestures. It seems they have been foes for far too long than now they could be friends.

And still this would be the time to confess to his own desires, to admit to his darkest fantasies. He could tell him, how his nightly visit, designed to end this folly, never achieved its purpose, on the contrary, how instead he kept dreaming of mighty hands and clever fingers, of the sweetness of submission, the bliss of pain dissolving into pleasure, and the sudden flood of relief that comes with the climax.

Thranduil has lived for so long, hardly anything stirs him at all – and for centuries he was glad of it. But now he only feels the weight of old age and none of its solace. The promise of calm his people are to experience in later life – the peace of mind, the waning of physical urges, the devotion to spiritual matters – it appears to have been empty, perhaps only a ploy or even worse, a lie. For what else could be the reason he craves so much the bond tied by carnal pleasures, the fulfilment in another being?

But does he need to say it? Is it not clear as day he longs for the dwarf’s company? Is he not here, of all places?

They sit quietly and gaze into the night, and again it is Thorin who breaks the silence.  
“For decades I wanted nothing but coming home. But now that I am, it appears I can’t find its meaning anymore. Perhaps I’ve been wandering for too long, for the stone to hold the comfort it used to. I miss the stars and the sky.”

Perhaps because you are no longer meant for this world, Thranduil thinks, yet again he does not speak his mind. “Not all those who wander are lost”, he says instead. It is a verse written for another king, but what is true never bears only one meaning. “Perhaps you were fated to learn to love the stars.”

It is as far as he would go in his intent, but the implication of his words seems lost on Thorin. “Perhaps”, he answers, as if deep in thought.

The silence drags on between them, but it is not the same serene quiet anymore, and it does not take long till the dwarf appears to grow restless. Quickly he drains his cup and gets to his feet. “It is late. I need to return to the feast lest my guard shall become weary.”  
Thranduil nods his agreement. And thus they part.

__

The festivities are scheduled to last for three days, which is a lot of time to spend with food and drink and merriment, songs and dance, plays and parades, and yet all these hours of entertainment leave surprisingly few opportunities to talk to anyone in private. Thranduil, as soon as folks are convinced that he is no elven enchanter who means to harm them, finds himself surrounded by all kinds of admirers, fair maidens and wealthy, middle-aged women and love-struck saplings alike, and above all Bard’s own children, who adamantly refuse to leave his side. He bears it with good humour, and much more patience than one might expect of an aloof Elvenking. Thorin’s amused smirks may have helped with controlling his temper. These grins, and subsequent graceful nods, are, however, the only communication they achieve in their duty-filled days. And even if their silence is more comfortable after that hour in the garden, some of the tension between them is still unsolved.

Thranduil knows that it is his turn, that unless he acts upon Thorin’s confession, he is to go back to his realm and be forever lonely and consumed by unfulfilled desire. He has seen what unrequited love can do to one of his kind, has seen his brothers and sisters fade and pine away, become mere shadows, and sometimes worse things, spectres, creatures of a vile hunger, servants to darkness.

He knows that he is also overly dramatic, it can’t be the true, deep connection of kindred souls, Thorin is a dwarf for Eru’s sake, and he is a Sinda of the blood of Doriath. It is but a fleeting fancy, a short-lived fever, and yet—  
And yet he fears it might not be.

When at first he laid hand on the dwarf it was intended to hurt, to humiliate; he was to be the monster of myth and legend, the merciless fiend to force him into compliance. But what he found instead that night in the touch of flesh and skin was his own lust, urges he had long forgotten about. They were darker than the gladsome, playful passion he remembered, no longing that was bright as sunshine and pure as starlight, but a craving of a more sinister kind. He wanted to own, to dominate, and – as he came to understand – be owned and dominated in return. And the need grew inside him like a chasm, a yawning, gaping hollowness, day after day, week after week, until at last he made a choice.

A stolen hour in Thorin’s embrace, a surrender to a never-known claim.

Afterwards everything was meant to be different, and it was, though not like he had expected. The spell was not broken, but increased in its power – as if they shared a bond that was not entirely spun from carnal desire.

Now it’s not only the appeal of wide shoulders and strong hands, the sheer might of his stout body, that draws Thranduil’s attention, not only the memory of bliss and relief brought about by his touch, but a strange kind of interest, to soothe the pain, to share the wisdom, to shed control.

It takes three long days to come to this conclusion, but when he does, and when his gaze meets the dwarf’s he gathers from the mild amusement in his expression that he has known all along.

“I am no lowly dwarf-lord anymore, I am the high-king of my people”, Thorin says, late the last evening, in what may be their last chance for privacy, “and if any dwarf ever was worthy of your attentions, would it not be one who descends from Durin himself? Consider it, and let me know once you’ve made your decision.”

And it is then that Thranduil reaches out to cup Thorin’s cheek, elegant pale fingers against rough beard, and when the dwarf just looks at him, unafraid and calm, he leans over to brush his lips over his mouth, heedless of who may see it and take offence. They are kings after all and accountable to no one.

And so begins the true alliance between Dwarves and Elves, with a bold albeit rather chaste kiss.

It shall remain the only public display of affection though. Their subjects will not see how Thranduil’s calm shatters under Thorin’s scrutiny, how his hands tremble when they tug impatiently at the dwarf’s clothes, how eager they trace sinew and brawn.

They have enough sense not to leave the feast at once or even together. They still drink their wine and make light conversation, fulfil their duties as representatives of state. The kiss, well – it could have been a brotherly act, a mere token of friendship, nothing that would call for a comment. But Thranduil knows what kind of pact he has sealed. He sees it in the passion blazing in Thorin’s sapphire eyes, he feels it in the heat simmering in his belly. And later, when at last they will be alone, in the intimacy of his quarters, he intends to fulfil that contract.

__

The bed is lush and soft, and despite the mild night a cheerful fire is burning in the hearth. It pours its flickering light into Thorin’s eyes and makes them shine like gems, bright and hot and clear as if fresh from the furnace. He is beautiful, Thranduil thinks, more beautiful than any old stone, yet no less sharp-edged, no less hard. A fierce enemy but an even fiercer friend, and his fills him with joy that now, after all this time, he can count the dwarf for the latter. A friend-- and a lover.

He would have thought them to tear each other’s clothes off the moment they were among themselves, with eager hands and no patience at all, but instead they just have gotten rid of the outer layers of their attire, their boots, their jewellery, all by themselves, then settled on the bed, shy as newly-weds who are unsure what to do.

A clean slate lies before them, a new beginning. As if - as of yet - nothing had happened between them but an almost brotherly kiss. Though Thranduil does not doubt for a moment, that he wants more, that he wants everything.

He wants, no he needs to touch Thorin, the desire is like quicksilver in his fingers, and he reaches out to run them gently through a loose strand of raven hair which so much more silken than one might guess, then lets them glide over Thorin’s face. His thumb traces the outline of a cheekbone, trails through the coarseness of beard, towards the jaw, and lower, over tendons and muscle, over the curve of his strong neck where it dips into broad shoulders, along the thick barrel-might of a chest.

Thorin permits the caress as long as it is mostly curious, intended to reacquaint the elf with the strange landscape of dwarven physique. But once Thranduil’s attentions grow too enticing, for he circles and teases Thorin’s nipples that tighten readily under the touch, the dwarf’s fingers raise to still the elven hand.

“Tell me how you want me”, he says, voice rough with hardly concealed passion, and there is a sudden tension in his body as if he had to restrain himself from leaping like a predator attacking its prey. A twitch in his fingers that are still closed around Thranduil’s wrist betrays how close he is to losing control.

He is most alluring like this, nigh to his beastly side, but his question is lost on Thranduil and he tilts his head in puzzlement. “How?”, he echoes. The fingers tighten and another hand rises and touches him and buries itself in his moonshine-hair and– it’s merely the idea of a tug, but it is there, threat and promise.

“I would surrender to you, if you wished it”, Thorin breathes, but his fingers, they flex and the roots of Thranduil’s hair hurt with the falsehood of the offer. The dwarf’s expression is unperturbed, as if there was nothing to wonder about, as if this cruel grip in Thranduil’s hair was perfectly to be expected. And perhaps it was, Thranduil thinks as he lets himself be pulled towards Thorin, so close the dwarf’s mouth nearly touches his ear when he whispers: “If you desired it, Lord, I would allow you to bind me and use me as you please.”

And Thranduil shivers at the picture the words invoke in his mind, for he knows of the appeal of Thorin bound for his pleasure, but what he truly craves – as he now, finally, comes to understand – is to get rid of the burden of responsibility, to simply fall apart under a loving touch, to lose himself, like he is now that small sparks of pain travel from his scalp to the treacherous throb in his groin, in sensations of sweet torment, that yank his soul from starlit spheres of reason into the brutal immediacy of the flesh. There is no doubt in this sensual prison of bone and nerve, just the assurance of rebellious, insolent life, the ultimate present, without past, without future. What else can truth be but the certainty of the moment?

And Thorin can read these thoughts from him like from a book, he lays him open with his piercing eyes, to the last fibre of his heart, and he just presses him backwards, into the pillows and puts a finger to the curve of Thranduil’s lips, and then he sets to open the buttons of Thranduil’s robes, with deft artisan’s fingers that never falter or fail, and so swiftly the elven chest is revealed to the hungry gaze.

Large, rough hands run over the bared skin and a hot mouth follows in their wake, tender lips and greedy teeth and scraping beard, and within moments, Thranduil’s skin is on fire with tingling sensation. He wants to arch into the touch and return it and feel for himself the mighty flex of muscle under the tips of his fingers, but Thorin won’t let him. Every time he reaches for the dwarf, his hands are pushed back into the mattress, and for some strange reason his frustration adds to the excitement.

Thorin’s mouth travels lower, towards the waistband of Thranduil's breeches, the scratch of bristle maddening, and then he looks up at him, blazing eyes and lustful expression, and the gaze runs over him like molten sunlight.

The strong dwarven fingers take hold of the trousers and tear the garment apart, laces snapping as if they were but dry twigs, and Thranduil gasps at the suddenness of the act and the demonstration of uncanny strength, and then he is utterly exposed, Thorin’s breath almost cool on the heated flesh as he leans closer, then the sweep of a tongue over his length and he forgets whatever objections he could have uttered at the wrongness of a royal mouth on his cock, for everything dissolves into pleasure as Thorin’s lips close around him.

Out of their own accord his hands find their way into Thorin’s mane, yet again the dwarf forces them back to his sides, with bruising strength this time, and without thinking Thranduil struggles, like a reflex – resistance runs in his blood – but Thorin holds him with ease, every bit the master of the situation, and he can’t do anything but lie back and have this lovely mouth suck him, swallow him, the constriction of muscle and the tease of tongue so delicious, soon the pleasure is swirling inside him, a surging tide. Faster and faster the lust rises, the pull too powerful to withstand, and Thranduil whimpers and moans and begs without words, fingers clutching at the sheets, for he is not allowed to touch the dwarf, even though he may, no he must defile his mouth, because he can’t escape its suction, however much he tries to, twisting and writhing under Thorin’s strong hands, yet his fingers stay spellbound at his sides, and the sensation is overwhelming, slick greedy tightness, then, a warning cry between ragged breaths, the tightly wound knot of orgasm unravelling and he spills his seed into the ravenous dwarven maw.

Thorin rubs the shivers from Thranduil’s thighs in sure, soothing strokes of his wide hands before he crawls up towards the head of the bed and looks at Thranduil with such fondness, it makes the elf’s heart ache; and then Thorin kisses him, with lips and tongue that only moments ago have been curled around his cock, kisses him so deep he can lick every bit of his own essence from his mouth, sweet-bitter saltiness, no trace of shame, only joy, and again he wants to run his hands over Thorin’s skin, dig his hands in the brawn of his back, and again Thorin denies him.

“Be patient”, he whispers, and lowers his mouth onto Thranduil’s lips and keeps on kissing him with dwarven thoroughness until his mind begins to fray and the desire settles anew in his belly and his breathing grows shallow under the onslaught of a covetous tongue.

“Will you have me”, Thranduil asks with only the faintest tremble in his voice as Thorin sets to peel him from the dishevelled remnants of his garments, while the dwarf himself still remains fully clothed, and it is Thorin’s turn to raise a questioning eyebrow. “Like last time, I mean”, Thranduil adds, uncertain whether he wishes for it or not, and Thorin still does not answer, just places his hand over Thranduil’s heart in a possessive sprawl, and looks at him thoughtfully.

“You mean if I intend to fuck you?”, he says after a significant pause, the coarse word carefully chosen it seems, lips twitching in silent amusement, and Thranduil merely nods, an improbable blush blooming on his cheeks. His heart pounds in his chest with increased urgency, there is no way, Thorin can miss his excitement.

“So it is true what they say about insatiability of elfish appetites?”, he taunts, and Thranduil bites his lips, because these rumours are Men-spun lies and yet he might be the exception to the rule, for his desire is stirring again, his cock half-hard already, despite such short a time for recuperation.

“What would you have me do?”, Thorin asks instead of moving even the fraction of an inch. “I offered myself to you, but you chose a different path. Now I ask you again. Just name your demands.”

“I would see you.” It is the first thing that comes to mind, and the smile on Thorin’s face is all the reward he could have hoped for.

Thorin undresses purposefully, quickly, but even so it is an enticing display of power how his hands seem unperturbed by arousal, steady and calm, how the fabric falls away from his strong body, how the skin stretches tight over bulging muscle. He is delightful in his strangeness of seemingly too much brawn in too short limbs and too wide a torso, in the odd adornments etched into his flesh and the fur covering him in places like an animal. He is so unlike any elf it makes Thranduil’s mouth water and his loins tingle, and more than anything he wants to have this sturdy body pressed flush against his naked skin, feel the desire for him hard and hot against his stomach, and Thorin, who has become almost perfect at reading his mind, just climbs over him and settles between his spread legs, his weight so good it makes Thranduil gasp and then they kiss again, a desperate tangle of tongues and twist of lips. Their breath is searing between them, air on fire, and then Thorin moves against him, sliding their cocks along each other. The friction of hair and firm stomach-muscle is marvellous and yet almost too much on Thranduil’s sensitive flesh, a blur of pleasure and pain and he pants, eyes wide, the stormy grey overtaken by the black of pupils, and Thorin pauses.

“Are you uncomfortable?”, he asks and at Thranduil’s tacit affirmation, he retreats to fetch an oil lamp. He puts out the flame and pours the oil into his palm, to test its temperature. When he’s satisfied with the degree, he lets it drip from his hand onto Thranduil’s belly, warm, viscid droplets, until they have formed a small pool in the hollow of the elven stomach.

The mattress dips under his weight as he climbs back on the bed and kneels between Thranduil’s thighs. Running his oily palms over their inner side, then over the sharp angle of hipbone, upwards, he finds the puddle of lamp oil and smears it all over Thranduil’s belly and groin. He touches him everywhere but for his cock and ballocks, the calluses of his blacksmith-hands softened by the slickness and still exquisitely rough on the tender skin.

Thranduil observes how focussed he is on the task, how diligent in his ministrations, and he also watches the play of muscles in the powerful arms, the defined ropes of strength trailing over the stomach towards his thick, flushed, rigid cock, the whole of his body an attest to dwarven prowess, and Thranduil wants him unlike anything he has ever wanted before, and he knows how it shows in his eyes. How they blaze like star-mirrors, how they reflect Thorin’s victory, Thorin’s claim, and he is not ashamed of his surrender, but elated by his choice.

They do not speak, but there is no need for words as Thorin leans over him, and lips find his mouth again and the dwarfish weight bears down on his graceful elven body and their trapped cocks with such delightful pressure, it knocks all air from his lungs, and his chest heaves with the desperate draw of breath, lungs straining against the might of his heart’s drum, that seems to leave no more space for anything in him but the pure bliss pulsing through his veins.

Thorin is heavy as stone as he grinds himself against Thranduil, a movement that if not impossible would at least be intolerable without the lubricity of the oil easing the slide of skin on skin, and even so the friction is almost overpowering, racking Thranduil’s body with shocks of pleasure, and he moans into their kiss, and Thorin’s hand clutches at his hair again and pulls and by Elbereth’s lights, it is wonderful, maddening, and the dwarf answers his sighs with the permission to finally touch him, and he does. In a flash his hands are on the broad back and the shapely buttocks, and cruelly his fingers dig into muscle, and for a change it is Thorin who groans in sweet distress. Encouraged Thranduil wraps his legs around the sturdy dwarven waist, to drag Thorin even closer, and they are one heartbeat, one tangle of alien limbs and familiar minds.

“Better?” Whatever the question is meant to inquire, the answer must be yes and Thranduil whispers it against Thorin’s hot mouth hovering over his lips, waiting for his approval, and the dwarf smiles an affectionate smile and he speaks in that low, honeyed tone of wicked seduction: “Good. For I would not hurt you, my lord. Not unless you asked me to.”

Words that cause shivers in him, like the wind stirring the leaves, and words that crawl over his skin like a caress in itself, the deep growl of Thorin’s voice slipping under the surface and touching something deep within. There it is again, the sweetness of submission, the lure of mindless compliance; the state in which a proud, ancient elf as himself, a king among his people, is naught but a twitching bundle of nerves at the mercy of a strong dwarven hand. And Thorin understands this without prejudice, he even loves him for it, Thranduil can see it in his eyes which are brimming with affection, it is their game, their secret.

“When you bound me and put me in chains” – the dwarf’s breath is white-hot against his skin and the weight of his body unrelenting against Thranduil’s aroused flesh – “I gather you wanted to show me the delights that may be found in defeat. Yet perhaps you planned for me to learn and to understand, so I would treat you in the same way – shackle you for your own pleasure, subject you to the torment of a caress you have to endure without appeal.”

And so Thorin paints obscene pictures with night-dark words that leave Thranduil dazed with desire, while he drags his lithic body over slick elfish skin in an untiring rhythm, exposing nerves like a stone carver would cut beauty from marble, the crush of his rock-hardness trying and tempting and testing Thranduil’s will and stamina. He burns under the grating of hair and bone and flesh until the sensations become so intense, the skin grows numb and cold shivers run over his thighs. He feels like his physical form might crumble under the ruggedness of dwarven muscle, liberate his fae from its fleshly vessel, he is so close to breaking, his limbs refuse his command.

Thorin is only too aware of the impending crisis. “Come for me”, he whispers before he takes his lips in another kiss, and Thranduil complies and lets go, and tension shatters like a glass upon stone floor, and for a moment he is free, unleashed spirit, boundless love, and then the angry jolts of the flesh, and at last he spends himself in violent shudders between their bodies.

And the dwarf keeps kissing his mouth, as if he drinks his pleasure, as if it is like food and air to him, and when he finally withdraws with glazed eyes and swollen lips, joy floods the elf’s heart like the snow melt swells a mountain stream.

Thorin sits back on his heels, the hair on his chest sticky with lamp oil and the pearly spatter of Thranduil’s seed, but he appears not in the slightest bit troubled by the mess, on the contrary, he looks at him as if marvelling at a fine piece of workmanship, while his hands even smear through the trails of liquid with obvious satisfaction, although--

“You have not…”, Thranduil says, glancing at Thorin’s still rigid cock. “Would you have me… Shall I--”

But Thorin only puts one filthy finger over his lips and says: “Just lie still for me.”

And then he wraps his own hand around his swollen flesh and pulls, hard and slow and determined, while he looks at him with those piercing crystal-eyes of his and it does not take long until his mighty frame shakes, rattled by the sheer force of orgasm, and he is coming too, mouth opened in a silent roar, painting the pale elven chest with even paler strands of semen.

And he is more beautiful in this moment than Thranduil has ever seen him, and without thinking he pulls him down onto the mattress and into his arms, as if still not sure of his realness, as if he would disappear, if he was not touched at once, and so they lie in a tight embrace, heedless of their state and they kiss one last time, languid lips and lazy tongues, before sleep claims them.


End file.
